Remnants
by Virodeil
Summary: Luke, unknowingly, took a different approach to Bespin, physically and metaphysically.
1. Of Past Information

Remnants  
By Rey

Luke, unknowingly, took a different approach to Bespin, physically and metaphysically.

Story Notes: Words in bold are words on the screen display, whether Artoo's or somebody else. Known or likely-deduced events won't be repeated, only glossed over if necessary. Timeline is tweaked a little, but you can deduce the alterations yourselves, I think, while reading. Three-shot. Dedicated to the one-shot _Witness_ by Jedinemo.

1\. … Of Past Information

The interior of the X-Wing, quite familiar after three years of heavy use, now felt stifling, even clostrophobic. To think that the duo inside had begun their rushed, unplanned trip only less than half an hour ago…

"Artoo?"

Questioning neutral beep.

"Do you think Master Yoda was right?"

Neutral beep.

A heavy, rueful sigh. "Master Yoda always beat me soundly, and he's _small_. Vader is _gigantic_ , and Ben said he's good at swordmanship. How can I help my friends this way?"

Neutral beep.

"Do you think I'm too reckless and thoughtless, like Master Yoda said?"

Neutral beep.

"But my friends are in danger from _Vader_! And _Vader_ killed my _father_! I can't just forsake them, can I?"

A rude short series of splats and screeches.

An indignant huff. "What? You don't believe me? Or you think saving my friends from Vader's clutches isn't necessary?"

Positive beep.

A growl. "Which one?"

One high-pitched beep and one set of bleeps.

"How could you know better than Ben? Ben was their teacher! You heard Ben, right? Vader murdered Anakin."

A mocking blat.

"I don't understand. How could you know?"

A series of whistles and croons and tweets and beeps.

"Umm. Can you just use the screen, please? We're still three more hours from leaving hyperspace after all. I don't need to use it yet."

And with that, the previously blank, unlit display screen on the panel in front of him glowed a soft white, with black lettering running across it. " **I said: Anakin Skywalker was my owner. Mistress Padmé gave me to him.** "

"Huh? Wasn't your owner Captain Antilles? Threepio said so, and Leia too." A feeling of betrayal began to creep in.

Rude splats and a mocking blat. " **I said: Anakin Skywalker was my owner. Mistress Padmé gave me to him.** "

His breath hitched. The feeling of betrayal, now a raging inferno, battered at his fraying composure, mixed with loss and melancholy. ` _If I knew sooner, I could have asked so much about my father and probably my mother too from Artoo. So much time lost…_ ` "Why did you never tell me? Is Threepio…" He gripped at the steering rod with convulsing hands. ` _If Threepio… Both with me all this time, even before I knew anything about Jedi and Sith, or the Empire and this rebellion. Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen…_ ` He forced his breath passed clogged airway. ` _No, can't hate them,_ _any_ _of them. Focus on the present, just the present. Artoo is here. Just make use of the time, just that._ `

" **Master Luke never asked.** "

He blinked. A bittersweet smile twitched on the corners of his lips. Quite an Artoo response. Couldn't fault such droidic logic too. Comforting reality. Whoever Artoo had been, whatever secret the droid and his taller companion had been hiding, they were still _his_ , still there for him. "Who is Vader then? Did you ever see him together with my father?"

" **No.** "

"Did you ever know him before my father died?"

" **There was no person called 'Darth Vader' when I was with Master Ani.** "

A pit of dread began to open up, churning with nausea. "Then who killed my father?"

A tense pause stretching into eternity, accompanied only with the sounds of Artoo's straining processor, the high-pitched humming of an X-Wing travelling beyond lightspeed, and Luke's own increasingly-laboured breathing. And then… " **By my calculation, it was Jedi-** **Master** **Obi-Wan Kenobi, Master Luke.** "

" _WHAT?!_ "

" **By my calculation, it was Jedi-** **Master** **Obi-Wan Kenobi, Master Luke.** "

"I got that! But… but… but…" The nausea churned faster, wilder, creeping up his throat like acid. This was _worse_ than before, somehow. "How… how could you say _that_ about _Ben_?"

" **The string of situations defied the logic programmed into me, Master Luke. I am sorry. It was my best calculation, based on my programming.** "

"I… No, I'm sorry, Artoo. I understand. Just… just show me then, on the screen, why you came to such conclusion."

An obliging beep. Recordings played on the screen, one after another after another after another.

In the end, it was all that Luke could do not to vomit into his space-sealed helmet.

" **Master Luke?** "

But he couldn't answer. Realisations danced mockingly before him, turning his existence into a laughing matter.

He existed now, while his _mother_ had been _choked_ by her own _husband_ and had her children _split up_ like some _plunder_ after her death, by _Master Yoda's decision_ no less… while his _father_ was _cut down_ by his own _friend_ and _left_ a _burning_ wreckage… while he realised he had a _twin sister_ named _Leia_ , maybe even the selfsame person that he had been _fancying_ for three years, _kissed_ on the _lips_ by him _twice_ …

" **Master Luke? Are you all right? Do you need to repair yourself?** "

Repair himself… His mother died giving birth to him and his sister, his father might have died a very agonised, very horrible death on the hands of someone both Skywalkers had trusted deeply, and who was his ssister? And Artoo wanted him to repair _himself_. He would rather repair whatever _else_ had gone wrong in his not-so-long life.

" **Plotting a course to Polis Massa, Master Luke. Your silence is unnatural. You need to be repaired. I cannot help you.** "

Repair… The urge to throw up returned again. The scream of his burning, limbless father danced in his mind. Repair…

Repair… His father had not been dead, when Artoo had been levetated away from the site. He must have died soon afterwards, but his ashes must have still been there.

Repair… "No, Artoo. Plot a course to the planet where you last saw my father please." His voice was a squeaky croak, pushed past clogged throat, but he didn't care. Repair…

A surprised string of splats and bleeps, followed by a questioning beep.

"I… I want to gather his ashes, Artoo. If nothing else, I could do this for him. I… I want to visit my mother's burial site too, if you know where it is."

An ascenting beep. Strings of numbers paraded across the screen. A moment after, the indicator light showing the completion of a course plotting glowed green, before the one for ending hyperspace travel lit up similarly.

" **Exiting hyperspace before proceeding to Mustafar, Master Luke.** "

It was _just_ his luck that, upon exiting hyperspace and before he could align himself to the new jump vector as shown on the screen, instead of the black emptiness of space, his X-Wing figuratively plopped into the midst of an asteroid belt, and came nose to nose against what looked like a small Imperial shuttle, backdropped by the ISD _Avenger_.

" _Artoo!_ "

A series of beeps and bleeps and low blats which somehow conveyed nervous apology.

An exasperated sigh. But at least this was familiar territory. No need to touch on old wounds; only need to survive to see another day, for now at least.

Harder to do than to think, of course: evading the rain of green plasma fire that eagerly commenced after a moment's startled pause, just as his Force perception detected a strong, dark, menacing presence a distance away, gleefully expectent. Just his luck.

"If this is how you thought of repairing me, Artoo, you might just be right," he grumped half-heartedly, as the X-Wing evaded both asteroids and laser shots, trying to find a safe moment, space and angle to jump into hyperspace. After all, he was now too distracted to brood on the past. "We can't go there yet then. Plot a course to an inhabited planet, Artoo. Leave these to me."

A strong negative blat.

"Artoo…"

But he could not argue with the stubborn droid now. The Force was shrieking continuously at him in warning, given how close he was _constantly_ with both stray asteroids and enemy fire.

And then, suddenly, just on the split second of perfect angle, as he corkscrewed on the edge of a suspiciously-alive asteroid, bracketted closely by deadly green streams on all sides, Artoo beeped a warning, half a moment before the light for entering hyperspace burnt green on the panel in front of him, and the vista changed into glowing starlines.

"Thanks, Artoo," he sighed, slumping against the seat, wishing he could swipe a hand across his face in spite of the helmet. Then a weak, incredulous grin stretched across his clammy face, as memories of his fellow pilots in Rogue Squadron passed through his mind, distracting him from his own shock. "I'm curious though, what's an Imp Destroyer doing in an asteroid belt? Sounds too crazy to be true, like something Wes would boast about, don't you think?"

Artoo chortled. Luke's weak grean widened, as he reciprocated the chuckle, and snorted as he at last understood the string of coordinates on the screen, which had not changed even a digit from before. "You're one stubborn astromech, aren't you? Did you perchance know my father so well that you could hazard a prediction for my action and wishes?" A twinge of betrayal panged through his heart again, but he ignored it. The realisation that Artoo had kept such an important secret from him this long was just too fresh still, that was all.

The addressee twittered happily, apparently ignorant or uncaring about his new owner's thoughts about him.

Luke shifted on the seat, trying to find a more comfortable spot, then muster up his courage to ask. "Artoo, but my father was truly a Jedi, right?" He just _must_ know.

The contents of his chest sank past the belly of his X-Wing, it felt, when, for a moment, his cautious query was answered only by, _again_ , the sound of Artoo's straining processor and the humming of his starfighter soaring through hyperspace.

And then: " **I am uncertain of the answer, Master Luke. Again, the string of situations defied the conclusion drawn from my programming alone, however extensively Master Ani tinkered with me. I am sorry, Master Luke. Do you still wish to receive my answer?** "

"Yes." His voice was hitched and scared, but hopefully Artoo would not pick up on it and still continue, despite his heart screaming otherwise.

" **Is Master luke sure that after that Master Luke is not going to suffer from a programming glitch like before?** "

A strained, quickly-dying chuckle. "You're becoming as fussy as Threepio, Artoo."

An indignant set of bleeps and blats.

"Artoo, please…"

"A harrumph of undulating short whistle. But thankfully – or _not_ – for Luke's increasingly-frayed nerves, the astromech did oblige him. " **Master Ani was a Jedi since after Mistress Padmé gifted me to him. But shortly before the Republic was renamed the Empire, Master Ani turned into a Sith.** "

" _WHAT?!_ "

" **Master Ani was a Jedi since after Mistress Padmé gifted me to him. But shortly before the Republic was renamed the Empire, Master Ani turned into a Sith.** "

" _Artoo!_ You… I… I… _I_ …"

" **Master Luke?** "

"You… _How?_ How… how could you say _that_?" Bile pooled in his mouth. Denial pounded in his head and tilted it every which way. His eyes crossed as he forced himself to read Artoo's subsequent reply, blurred not only by the vertigo but also something hot and watery that he refused to name.

" **I watched from afar when Master Ani met the then Supreme Chancellor Palpatine in the theatre house. They did not know that I went after Master Ani. Master Ani pledged himself to Supreme Chancellor Palpatine as a Sithlord for the power to save Mistress Padmé from death in childbirth.** "

More bile crept up; more, and he would have to unseal his helmet in order to spit it out, regardless of if his X-Wing had suffered any smallest cracks in his stint on Dagobah. But how could he care about being partly frostbitten when… when…

The burning lump of screaming flesh, _his father_ , got into that state because he turned into a _Sith_ , and he turned into a Sith because he had wanted to _save his wife's life_ , but his wife was _dead_ anyway, and what did he get for all that? _Death_ , by _torture_ , on the hand of _his own friend_ ; _death_ , because of _Palpatine_ , the Emperor. The emperor was still alive, but Anakin Skywalker–!

If the Emperor were here, and Luke was an accomplished Jedi, he would… he would…

` _Hate leads to darkness…_ `

His hands curled tightly into fists. So easy to say, so hard to experience. If the Emperor were here…

" **Master Luke?** "

He hated Obi-Wan Kenobi, for it must have been Ben who had done the despicable deed, as much as he would like to deny it, but the Emperor–!

" **Master Luke? Are you all right? Shall we go to the nearest medical centre to repair you?** "

His father had been _that_ desperate to save his mother that he became a _Sith_ to do so; _in vain_ in the end. But the Emperor…?

His mother had died in the end. The Emperor's promise had been a lie. And for what price? A dead woman and a dead man; both enemies of the Empire maybe, hence the lie…

" **Master Luke? We are exitting hyperspace in four minutes. Shall I plot a course to Polis Massa next for your repair?** "

Repair… Did the Emperor salvage whatever left of his father? Or did the Emperor just watch passively as a lovesick Jedi fool burnt alive?

He couldn't say that either way was preferable, because both were _not_ preferable to him. But if his father was somehow alive still, despite all the herendous injuries…

Then _who_ was his father now? Was Darth Vader…

 _No_! It couldn't be!

" **Exitting hyperspace in thirty seconds, Master Luke. Plotting next course to Polis Massa.** "

No no no no! He must face _this_! He might not have the courage if he delayed.

"No, Artoo, don't." A weak, scratchy whisper, it was all that he could muster now.

His tongue felt thick and heavy, swollen, and his head felt dizzy, and his ears were ringing too. It would be _far_ more preferable, though, if this particular hangover was caused truly by a night of laughter and camaraderie with his friends, instead of… instead of _this_.

His cheeks were wet by now, he was dimly aware of it, but he didn't care. He _must_ know.

"Artoo, who's my mother? Is Padmé my mother?"

" **Yes, Master Luke,** " came the answer on the screen, before it was wiped clean and the signal for the end of the hyperspace travel lit up once more.


	2. Of Grim Legacy

Author's Notes:  
I apologise for the horribly long wait. Truth be told, the first instalment was done in roughly similar length of time, so… Well, but I hope you enjoy this one, as much as you might enjoy a bittersweet thing that is.  
My plan of making this a three-shot has been drawn and quartered and consigned half to the exploding Death Star and the other to the lava river of Mustafar, however, sadly, somehow, and now I am somewhat directionless. I have several planlets to go from here; but tell me what you think? Any opinion (whether of this chapter, this story, my abysmal writing and portraying skills, etc) or any idea would be greatly and quite warmly welcomed. I'm serious, and seriously desperate. If I got more idea/opinion, I might be able to write the next instalment quicker, given the less directionless path.  
But for now, enjoy! (I welcome critiques too!)

Remnants  
By Rey

2\. … Of Grim Legacy

Seen from deep space, the planet Mustafar looked… impressive, dangerously so, and, admitedly, alluringly beautiful. A ball of vivid yellows and oranges and reds and lines of deep brown, cradled by rich black.

Luke had _never_ seen such shades or such combination of shades on a planet before. But then again, he had only left Tatooine for the first time ever around two years ago, and his intense work with Rogue Squadron – plus the _million-credit_ bounty on his head – always prevented him from sightseeing whenever he was round a new planet.

Just his _luck_ , that _this_ planet was his first chance for a more leisurely look.

Too bad, really. Just on the first glance, he immediately wish to go away, just… _go_ , despite the visual beauty. The Force seemed to reflect the fiery look of the planet, impinging rudely and harshly and chaotically into his mind. He didn't like it, _not at all_. The Force had _never_ done that before!

Worse, he had nothing to distract him. Artoo had completely hyjacked the X-Wing,, having insisted that he still remembered the exact location of where "Master Ani" had been last, thus "Master Luke" needn't touch the yoke at all for this leg of the journey. The astromech didn't seem to like Mustafar either, judging from how slowly they crawled towards it, but it didn't molify Luke any, and they were still going there anyway.

In fact, it just made the young man more morose and apprehensive.

The feelings were worsened when, just before they breeched the atmosphere, A line of text was scrawled across the screen; a warning from the said astromech, or maybe a helpful observation: " **This planet is unstable. It is full of active volcanoes and lava rivers. It is also home to several organisation considered criminal to the Republic and the Empire. Master Ani burnt near one of the lava rivers after disposing of the leaders of the** **Separatists, shortly before the Republic was renamed the Empire** **.** "

With such… _glowing_ 'endorsement', it was no surprise, then, that the earlier trepedation turned into nearly-overwhelming dread and anxiety that squeezed his chest ever tighter, as Artoo piloted the X-Wing ever closer to the fireball.

His father, _disposing of_ the leaders of a criminal organisation; criminals, yes, but _people_ still.

His father, the _Sith_.

It should have been no wonder, then, that his father had felt neither compunction nor hesitation whatsoever to just _dispose of_ those _people_ , right? Luke himself, whether he'd admit it or not even to himself, had _disposed of people_ all the same. The Death Star…

But if so, why was bile gathering on the back of his throat once more?

His hands, uselessly wrapped round the yoke, convulsed alongside his body.

His _father_ , the _Sith_.

His father, killing _people_ , probably just as easily as when Luke himself had been shooting at womprats from aboard his Skyhopper in Beggar's Canyon, probably with premeditative violence unlike when Luke had desperately tried to shoot into that exhaust port on the Death Star.

But…

` _Father_ _ **burnt**_ _here_ _, after being_ _ **mutilated**_ _by_ _ **his own friend**_ _, if Artoo told me the truth_ _._ `

He swallowed back the bile as best as he could, but the urge to all-out vomit instead got stronger.

Events were too twisted and horrible to comprehend, let alone to believe, but there they were, before his eyes and approaching still, currently in the shape of a dangerously-beautiful fire-gem. He didn't want to look on, but he didn't want to look away either.

And now, realisation began to seep into his highly-reluctant mind.

` _Could it be, that the chaotic Force round here… Could it be that it was caused by_ _ **Father**_ _that long time ago?_ `

He swallowed again, through painfully-tight throat. Every sense in his body and mind screamed for him to leave, _now_ , but contrarily his will firmed with a desperate thirst to _know_. It was the same sheer stubborn tenacity alone that made him say – or rather, croak – "No" to Artoo's offer of: " **Shall we leave now that you have seen the planet, Master Luke?** "

But the said desperate strength wasn't enough, in the end, to carry him out of the cockpit of his X-Wing, once they touched down and powered off on an old, dangerously-decrepit-looking landing platform. He – or rather, Artoo – had parked the starfighter too close to a flowing, glowing lava river for his comfort, but it wasn't what made him hesitate to confront this bit of the past.

It was a lone old fighter-craft, settled nearby on the same rickety platform, looking as though it had been there as long as he lived or beyond.

Which must truly be the case, if the paradoxical echoes of bloodlust and overwhelming love shrieked out by that corroded, ash-covered thing were to be believed.

 _`Father's. Anakin Skywalker's.`_

His _father_ had come in in that thing, but _couldn't_ get out of this miserable ball of fire.

His _father_ , burning like the planet itself.

His _father_ , burning _alive_.

His _father_ , burning unquashed, _here_.

Something scorching rushed up his throat from the depths of his belly, pooled in his mouth, and he gagged on reflex.

The flow was choked off on its way to leaving his mouth a second after, though, when, suddenly, the X-Wing powered up by itself.

No, no, not by itself.

` _Artoo!_ `

He pounded a fist weakly at the control panel, narrowly missing a line of buttons that he couldn't care less what they were for right now. "Artoo," he choked out, coughing and gagging within the confines of his helmet. He wanted to be angry with the astromech, but _couldn't_. "Artoo, don't." It should've come out as an order, but instead it had transformed into a plea midway out his lips. ` _Artoo, I_ _ **need**_ _to do this – go out, go find him, go bury him,_ ` he wanted to say, to explain to his only friend in this unfriendly environment, but couldn't.

The said astromech, undaunted and probably unsuspecting of his inner turmoil, shrieked back at him in offence… or was it rage?

The astromech, _his father's_ , too.

Artoo must be trying to shield him from something horrible. But he wasn't a child anymore, and he had a _right_ to know about his own _father_!

He fumbled with the emergency release lever of the canopy.

It didn't work.

He blindly searched for the automatic-release button next, then hit it hard once he was reasonably sure it was the right one.

It _didn't work_ either.

"Artoo!" He hated the sound. It came out as a whimper. No, he needed to _get out_. That decrepit starfighter was there; it was _his father's_ ; he needed to _know_. So close, so far; just this flimsy mass of durasteel and transparisteel and wires and computers, but a gulf of probably twenty-one years; _twenty-one years_ too late…

But, " **You seem to be self-destructing, Master Luke. This planet is bad for you, as it was bad for Master Ani,** " came the answer, which just frustrated and angered him more.

And the rising fury, quite easily, bulldozed over all the nausea and hesitation.

"He's my _father_ , Artoo! I have the _right_ to know _the truth_ about him, however horrible it is!" he snarled, kicking the fuselage underneath the dashboard compartment, as heat rose quickly to his face.

" **What truth, Master Luke?** " Artoo retorted, as the X-Wing began to lift off. " **Master Ani is no longer here. The lava river has changed slightly as well, which means ashes from his limbs or even his body must have been buried and/or carried away by the lava flow. There is no truth to be gleened from our old starfighter, save for his fingerprints. Even if Master Ani were still alive, he would be fitted with prostheses, and prosthetic fingers have no prints, Master Luke.** "

A knife plunged into his heart and twisted round cruelly, it felt, as he registered what Artoo was saying. Damn cold, harsh droidic logic. Worse, he couldn't argue against that.

Well, humans mightn't be logical creatures at the worst of times, but they were _persistent_.

"That old fighter…" he forged on, snarling silently at the situation in general from inside his helmet, as his blood bubbled with a pent-up emotion that he couldn't describe, let alone name. "I could take his belongings. I could even take the fighter once we've got some tugging mechanism installed in here, or you could pilot it for me." He was grabbing for _any_ reason to stay on this inhospitable planet that he himself despised, he knew, but he _couldn't help it_. He wasn't leaving with _nothing_ of his father in his possession, he _refused_. "Artoo, _please_."

The X-Wing rose higher, in answer.

" _Artoo!_ " Wretchedness and helplessness fuelled the anger, so quickly, so easily, and stoked the Force round him into a wall of solid, simmering rage.

Malevolent thoughts about one specific insubordinate droid were born, raised, encouraged.

The Force churned wildly.

Thick, supposedly durable metal groaned. Lights flickered fitfully.

The said insubordinate droid shrieked in alarm.

A vicious, poisonous smirk tugged on its owner's lips.

" **Master Luke!** " – Who was that? What was that? – Pesky thing…

The yoke was yanked to the left.

The X-Wing banked accordingly, though shrieking unpleasantly in protest.

Triumph widened the vicious, poisonous smirk, and fanned the rage into further rampage.

The X-Wing continued to tilt in a spiralling dive; searching, searching.

But searching for what?

" **Master Luke!** " – Who was that? What was that? – Again? Pesky thing.

A hunk of… something… was sprawled on the landing platform, like a starfighter-shaped volcanic rock.

Sensations and disjointed memories trickled in slowly, almost timidly, triggered by the odd sight. They impinged on the mailstrem of helpless anger, corroding it little by little. ` _Father. Poignant grief. Starfighter. Desperate desire. Desperate hope. Wretched longing. Legacy. Relics. Nausea-inducing regret._ `

Indeed.

 _There_.

The X-Wing settled beside the target, just a wing-span away. ` _Mine,_ ` a vicious part of him snarled with triumphant satisfaction and possession.

` _His,_ ` another – equally-deep, equally-raw, equally-vicious – part countered, tempered by wretched longing.

And then, as if the acknowledgement was a key, as if it had wrenched out the stopper of a giant drainage pipe, other emotions and thoughts poured inexorably back into his clouded mind, related to that single word and unlocked by it.

` _His. Mine. Love. Hope. Mission. Loving mission. Right. All right. Rights. Of a son, of a father, rights._ `

He scrambled, stumbled, crumpled out of the cockpit, out of the suddenly compliant canopy, down on the grimy, ashy, sulphuric surface of the landing platform. But he was free now; free from the anger that now left him hollow and slimy and raw and even more desperate, free from his meddling but well-meaning assistant, free to claim his father's possessions – remnants of a man whose care he should have grown up in – as his, free to honour the man's memory, whatever he had become in the end – a Sith, for _his mother_ , for _him_.

Free to honour Artoo-Deetoo's aborted show of loyalty to a partner who must have loved him back just as fiercely, more than he had gotten from the man's son these two years…

Still shaking from the aftereffects of his blast of anger, Luke crawled towards the underbelly compartment of the sad lonely starship, then reached out for the water bottle peeking out of the ajar door.

One hand, not even that of a flesh-and-blood creature, attached to a _sentient-made_ construct, had done the same twenty-one years ago, in desperate, foolish hope of putting out the fire that was burning a man alive. A little bottle of water, a little un-droidic-like faith, against a river full of constant fire mixed with a flammable living body. And the faith in the bottle had never even been tested in the end, had never been given a chance to prove _true_ against all expected outcomes.

All because of an excentric old man with all too many secrets, possessing a twisted tongue wrapped in earnest truth, one who had also contributed to the life cost his innocent relatives had taken unknowingly.

One who'd had Luke's complete trust even less than a week ago, when he'd lain dying in a snowstorm, one who had always given instructions but never comforts even in the direst of situations.

He couldn't even say _that one's_ name, now, even just in his mind.

But now, Artoo was back by his side: a solid, comforting presence who never concealed even the bitterest truth from him, one who must have stood in this very position more than twenty-one years ago in accompaniment of another man; maybe even a man with his features if not his built, as all the veterans of the war before the Empire had always said.

Luke found that he didn't mind the legacy, the footsteps his father had left for him to trail after.

He wouldn't be a Sith, because of the Emperor. He wouldn't be a Jedi, because of _that one_. But he would be loving, like his father.

So he went to where he _saw_ his father had choked his mother, to leave a sprinkle of water in remembrance of anger's blind violence. Then he went to the edge of the crumbly fire-river bank, with the water bottle tilted down a little, remembering that darkness could always hide within the light, more potant than if left alone.

It had been twenty-one years too late for such a small, unassuming thing as several mouthfuls of water to do anything, to help douse the physical and metaphorical fire. It had been nearly twenty-one years too late, possibly, to retrieve anything – any _part_ – of the man who could have been a father and a husband at once. But it was never too late for remembrance, for a son's longing of a father who had been wrenched away from him so brutally.

The water bottle was tilted down further, and with the sprinkle of precious but useless droplets that it generously poured out, Luke traced out the outline of a man with no limbs on the surface of the liquid fire running before him.

And in his mind, he saw the fire quenched.


End file.
